Dr Watson's Wives
by ChurchillSaidSo
Summary: When an American girl stumbles upon a lonely doctor mourning a loved one, she certainly doesn't expect the series of frightening events that will follow. John/OC/Sherlock; AU.
1. Introduction

_Describe yourself as though I have never seen you. What physical traits define you as a person?_

I blinked skeptically at my next assignment for Anthropology. A letter to the professor, who I had one new class with as a result of the new year. Kind of stupid, I thought. Oh, well. If she wanted it, she wanted it. I began to write.

_Dear Dr. Griffin,_

_ My name is Emily Day. I am twenty, nearly twenty-one, with brown hair that isn't quite straight (that I loathe) and green eyes (which I like). My hair is long because I have no idea what to do with it otherwise, and _

I paused, unsatisfied. As I was pondering what to write next, Hana came in. I felt her eyes on me but was too focused to consider it. I heard her take in a deep breath. _Here we go,_ said a little voice in the back of my brain. I continued writing,

_I am on the lowest possible standard of average height, being a measly five-foot-two-_

"Em, I want to go abroad. Would you come with me?"

Oh, another one of her schemes. I sighed.

"Sure, love." Maybe something about what I wear- that was identifying, right? _You would most often find me in my favorite Converse. _

"No, _really._ There's something-"

"Mhmm." I wondered if a propensity for vintage was an identifying trait. I certainly had a lot of that.

"Emilia Day, pay attention!"

I reluctantly tore my eyes from my notebook, facing Hana's rare steely expression. Obviously, she was not in the mood to be ignored. Oops.

"Sorry, what?" I put the book down to show I was listening, and her glare melted back into excited chatter as she bounced like a ten-year-old from foot to foot.

"I want you to come with me to the study abroad office! Ben said that you have to sign up early to be able to go, and oh Emily I want to go, please go with me we'll have _soo_ much fun!" And without waiting for an answer, she grabbed my hand, yanked me off the top bunk, and raced out of the building.

"Go _where?_" I called after her breathlessly, distracted by the warm autumn sunshine. For autumns in the Northeast, this one was gorgeous.

"England, of course! Duh. Come on, Em- where better for two English majors to study for a year?"

"A _year_?" My attention was firmly in place, now. I tried shaking my hand off, but Hana's gymnastics-firm grip was like iron. Just another thing we had in common, but at the moment I was finding it hard to appreciate that.

She looked back as I struggled and frowned like I was stupid. "Yes, a year. We wouldn't be going for a quick visit, how boring! No, a year away's just what I need..." I heard her sigh.

"Have you broken it off with Stephen, then?" I asked suspiciously. Hana cleared her throat and wouldn't look at me, striding a little faster. We passed a throng of students, but Hana was determined to get to her destination, and with her long, elegant legs was leaving me to run after her trail of red hair.

"Yes, but that's not the point! He was always an arrogant pig, but that's not why I want to go."

"I think it is." I grumbled.

"Oh, Em!" Hana suddenly sighed. We had reached the spanse of trees outside the campus office building. Pausing outside the door, Hana looked sober- which was as rare as her stern gaze before. I wondered just how serious she was about escaping the whole boyfriend thing. I had been pretty sure Stephen had been a mutual, spring-into-fall fling- but Hana certainly was not required to tell me everything. Maybe she had cared more than she let on. But my thoughts were ahead of me, as usual.

"Em, you need a year away too! Don't you see? You're so..." she trailed off, looking for the right word. Once again derailed from my thoughts, I sputtered defensively,

"So what?"

"Moral!" She sighed. "You're an old lady behind that cute little face and curls. When are you going to do what _you_ want?"

"I do what I want!" I protested indigantly. "I'm twenty-one, aren't I?"

Hana's stern face threatened to show again. "No, you don't. You go to school, go to work, do your homework. It's the Devil's work to get you to go to a party, and God forbid I set up a date for you! When's the last time you got kissed, anyway?"

"Hana!" I scolded. And since she looked so smug at my reaction, I spat, "Last week at that party you made me go to, if you must know. Jeremy Rounds had one too many and so did I."

Hana snorted skeptically. "Yeah, right. I've never seen you drunk."

"The once was enough, thanks."

"My _point_ is that you always say you're bored. Why not take this once in a lifetime chance?" Hana's blue eyes grew huge and pleading, and she squeezed my hands. "Please? For me? For you? You know I wouldn't make it alone without the best roomie ever." And for those few seconds she looked like such a lost, woebegone child that I actually felt myself give a little.

I pursed my lips. "I'll... consider it."

Hana yelled triumphantly, and I took an alarmed step back at her gleeful shouts of, "We're going to England! OhmyGodwe'regoingto _England!_"

"Hana! We still have to be selected first!"

"Oh, silly. I signed us up weeks ago. And your father loves the idea. He didn't want me to tell you this way, he knows how you are; especially about leaving your mom." She rolled her eyes and then sighed at me pityingly. But unlike other instances, she didn't try to ask about my mom again, and her sunshiney smile returned. "But I convinced him that weekend we went to your house hiking and we're going! We're really going!" Hana continued her flighty victory dance, laughing joyfully.

"What?" I was flabbergasted. She couldn't possibly be saying...

"Pack your bags, Emily Day! We're going to London!" Hana whooped happily, confident in her (and apparently my Dad's) victory over me.

Feeling myself pinned to a mental wall in shock, I made a choking noise, threw up my hands, and stalked in the other direction. Hana didn't seem to mind my reaction, (reaction? I didn't know what I was feeling) judging by her smug smile.

"Why did you drag me out to tell me this if you've already signed us up?" I managed half-angrily at Hana.

She shrugged. "I had energy to spare. Thought the walk would do you good. Break it to you gently." She changed tact, her tone businesslike. "Oh, and you'll want to get a passport now, so you don't have to deal with it later. And we'll work on visas later, after dinner. Okay?" Hana, the planner. Or should I say the meddler.

I could only gape mentally. A year. In England. A long coveted dream. And here I was, pissed about it. I couldn't _believe _this.

The only good thing about being essentially forced to go, I thought to myself, was that good adventures start with an unwilling hero, right?

_Yes,_ I agreed with myself,_ but those heroes didn't have the likes of a meddling ginger._

To my amazement and Dad (plus Hana's) delight, the trip was arranged rather easily. Our Visas were obtained, passports updated, and bags packed. I hadn't even known that first semester studying abroad was possible in our little college.

Frankly, I suspected that Hana, who was attending simply to annoy her persnickety mother, had pulled some strings with her doting dad, who was Dean in a college somewhere. But no matter. I didn't ask.

I had firmly required myself to "take a chill pill" as Hana had so often encouraged me to do, and embrace the year away from home with as big a smile as I could muster. My dad just seemed relieved that his head wasn't on the chopping block. Mom seemed glad for me, too.

"You'll have so much fun." She said the week before we left, smiling in her painfully fragile way. Her skin was pale. She didn't go out enough, I thought sadly. But this time, spending a quiet weekend at home, reading together, I didn't comment.

"You'll send me letters, won't you? I used to love your letters." She said, curled in her duvet and looking very small in it.

"There's always email too, Mom." She smiled wanly at me and continued re-reading Austen. I watched her with a feeling that was both affectionate and tired. I wondered how much postage it would cost me to send a letter every week.

Before I knew it, the agonizingly long flight was over and we were settling down in an apartment (no, a flat) and were looking around for jobs to supply our meager income. Bubbly, charismatic Hana got a job nearly immediately- two days in- waiting tables in a really nice place in the middle of London.

I was pickier. I didn't like to be too busy when I waited tables- that only ended in no sleep and lousy tips. So for a few weeks, I played cashier at a pharmacy, keeping my eye out for a place where I could fall back on my seven years' experience in the restaurant biz.

Even if I had had a waiting job, we were still pitifully poor. But there was no point, Hana said stubbornly, in coming to London and not playing tourist while you were there. I wholeheartedly agreed. We accordingly skimped our pennies together.

For two months, we spent as much as we dared on fall sightseeing trips, escapades to Big Ben, Parliament, and once even an eventful three-day weekend in Paris (Hana ashamedly agreed to improve her French skills before we went again and I promised never to let her near a married man again).

I felt a change begin in me. I was having fun, even going without things I had so brazenly taken for granted- peanut butter, my own bed (Hana and I shared the queen that had come with the flat) and heat, to name three. I felt lighter and more adventurous- maybe it was a sixth sense- a sense of the events to occur right outside our shoddy little door.

One night, sharing our weekly "splurge" on Friday Chinese food night, (an honored tradition) Hana said thoughtfully around a mouthful of noodle,

"Do you still want another job, Em?"

"Yeah." I shuffled my feet closer to our only space-heater and sighed. "I'm getting really sick of selling condoms."

Hana giggled and teased, "Not that you need them. Old lady."

I stuck my tongue out at her. "I'm not an old lady! I have standards!"

"Sure." Hana made a face at me. _This_ had been a matter of discussion before. "But really, Em, you've been a lot better lately. More relaxed. I think you put yourself into too much of a role back home, love." Hana patted my foot reassuringly. And because it was Hana, she swallowed and said, "I still think you'd like Tony."

"I'm not going on a blind date with a British guy, Hana." I said for the upteenth time. "I don't have time to date if I'm going to work, besides. I don't know how you do it."

"Yes." She said dryly. "It's such an effort." She heaved a melodramatic sigh and then stood up with a look that preceded news. Or heralded disaster. In this case, it was news.

"Oh, anyway, you got me distracted! You'll love me, I found you a job!" She clapped her hands excitedly.

"You did?" I sat up.

"Yeah! Nice little café job. Nights. 24-hour place. Some sweet old lady runs it came in for dinner with her boyfriend the other night and asked if I knew anyone. I told her I'd have you come by."

"Okay, great." I grinned and relaxed back onto the bed to drag forth a novel. I didn't like being behind on my "To Read" pile and it was looking like the Odyssey was on the chopping block next.

Hana blinked. "No lecture? No "Don't make plans for me, Hana? Hana, you should have called? I don't even know where it is, Hana? Hana-what-the-hell-were-you-thinking?" Seriously?"

"No. Why?" I raised an eyebrow with a smile. I did lecture her a lot. "Would you like one? I have a few saved, if you really feel that bereft."

"But-!" She struggled and then laughed. "Oh, fine. London air seems to be good for you. I won't spoil it. But I do love your lecture face."

I frowned from over the top of Homer. "I have not got a _lecture face_."

"Oh yes you do." Hana made a kissy face at me. "And it's sweet. You know, Tony would think it's sweet, too..." She leered at me suggestively.

I rolled my eyes.

The next week, I found myself rather happily employed in the café only a bus ride away- there hadn't been anything to worry myself over, after all. I was enjoying my new philosophy of taking things as they came more than I had thought I ever could. I suspected it had something to do with living so frugally- being poor gave me such an unexpected freedom. I was ready for anything.

Actually, let me rephrase. I was ready for _nearly _anything. Sometimes you can't account for wayward strangers coming in and smashing your life to bits.


	2. Chapter 1: Tea for Two

_Hello! Here's hoping you liked the first installment, and here is the second! A bit long, but how could I resist the good doctor? :)  
Anyway; this story's set a few months after the events of RF, (*sniff*) and will eventually include the return of Sherlock and the fallout therein.  
Normally I quite loathe OC's- but forgive me. There simply isn't a canonical character for the role of John's steady girlfriend/wife, so I'm afraid Emily Day will have to do (rumor has it that in the books Dr. Watson had six "wives"). Hate her or love her- but take note- she has a few... familiar qualities. There's a reason you're reading from her eyes, too!  
Enjoy!_

My first night at the café- a Sunday- began rather like any other. I remember looking in the mirror on my way in at five and starting in surprise before staring thoughtfully. Same face. Another café, another step towards... where, exactly? But I pushed those thoughts away. Time for introspection later. Work to do.

Having worked in all sorts of places back home, I wasn't troubled by the dinner rush, and wasn't exactly thrilled with the lull that came around 7, two hours into my shift. On a Sunday night, I doubted it, but maybe there would be a second rush and then I could go home... where the only intimate thing waiting for me was the soggy inner-most details of Hamlet.

Sure enough, half an hour later, the bell dinged, and from behind the line in the kitchen I could see a single patron wander in purposefully and take a seat.

"Be right with you!" I called out, reaching for a pot. I stuck it under the tap for coffee and felt a little relief. Finally. I loathed getting bored. The place hadn't been empty for an hour and I was getting restless.

When the pot was nearly full I pulled it out and went to greet the customer. My first impression was of his light hair and tired, tired eyes.

"Hello. Coffee?"

The man, early thirties I'd judge, seemed to come out of a dream. His grey-blue eyes refocused- first on the pot in my hand, and then around him. Had he forgotten where he was? And finally, they raised to scan my face. Confusion passed over his tired eyes, and I wondered if he might be a bit drunk already. But then again... those eyes were so familiar. Eyes that had lost. I saw those eyes every day.

But I pushed the thought aside with a smile. "Coffee? Or shan't you take it from a Yank?" And then, since his gaze was starting to unnerve me, I said, "Or if you like you could stare a while more. Yes?" Perhaps humor would open him up a little. I really didn't want to have to deal with a drunk tonight.

He looked away and nodded, lip twitching into what might have been a smile. As I filled his cup he commented, "New England. Bit far from home."

"How did you know that?" I asked in amazement. "Do you have family there?"

He took a short, quiet sip and shrugged. "Never been."

As that seemed to be his only offered explanation, I fell into routine. "Would you like a menu?"

"No. Have a piece of pie, if you have it."

"It's cherry." I informed him, pocketing my notepad, since he only wanted dessert.

But he made a face of childish disgust. I laughed in spite of myself. "Me too, I hate cherries! We have some fresh scones, if you like. Cinnamon."

"Sure."

I left to get his scone, and when I returned, I asked, "So how did you know? Where I'm from?"

"Could tell a bit more than that, if you don't mind me saying." The man rubbed his nose thoughtfully, scanning me with that assessing look again. I had been wrong- his eyes were hazel- a deep mix of green and grey and brown. Ordinarily, I wouldn't have tolerated that. But he seemed to do it with the absent-minded force of habit rather than presumptuously, so I let it pass.

"What else?" I asked curiously.

He had begun studying the scone with mild interest. "You're a student. Studying literature."

"Yes." I put an incredulous hand on my hip, watching this stranger inspect his dessert and simultaneously describe my life.

"And you have a roommate. But you're a bit low on funds, if you don't mind me saying." He took a bite, seemed to find it tolerable, and then washed it down with coffee.

"Unmarried, single. Old-fashioned. Mid-twenties, I'd guess. Do you run?" Here he looked up again, thoughtfully.

I blinked. "No. I do a lot of walking." Had this guy met Hana outside?

"And standing." He nodded towards the plastic seat opposite. "You don't look busy. Sit down?"

"All right." I acquiesed. Once I had settled, I asked, "Would you mind explaining how the _hell..._?"

The man smiled, but not as if he meant it. Something clouded his face. "I had... a mate. He was very accurately observant. Taught me a thing or two."

"Such as?"

He pointed to my left hand, the dark look passed. "Your hand is dark with ink. Been writing a lot. Could be the job, but you're young. University student. New England accent, so studying abroad. Roommate, then. Bit low on cash, because what student isn't?"

"How did you know what I was studying?" I asked, surprised. It all seemed too simple, laid out like that.

"Saw your textbook as I came in. You left it on the counter."

I glanced over and saw that it was true. I raised my eyebrows and turned back to him. He was halfway through the scone, which he seemed to be enjoying.

"And old-fashioned? My dress, I suppose." Indeed, one of my favorite new outfits was a fifties-inspired tea-length dress. Since it was so cold, I wore it with thick stockings and boots. Old-fashioned? Perhaps. But- I hoped- with class.

He nodded. "Your speech, too. Not many Americans look to say things like "shan't" or "suppose"."

Suddenly, for no very good reason other than this perfect stranger had waltzed in and taken the time to study me, I felt a blush coming on. I tried to hide this fact by turning the tables.

"Alright, Mr. Observant. My turn." I leaned forward onto my elbows.

"Your turn?" He seemed amused at the prospect. "To what?"

"See what I can make out of you." I leaned forward slightly, noting his lips quirking again.

"Left handed." I came up with first. He nodded. "A scientist of some sort, maybe? Ex-army. You're a regular. You live alone, but somebody keeps tabs on you, don't they? Not a girlfriend, either."

He blinked in surprise. "You're good. And broken down? How did you find all that?"

I smiled. "I'm left handed. Usually when I give a cup to a customer, they have to turn it. You didn't. Are you really a scientist?"

"A doctor, actually. Not that far off."

"Oh, wow. That was a shot in the dark. I guessed from your shirt."

"Why, is this a doctor's shirt? I'd thought I left my coat in the office. Have I got my name tag on?" I laughed as he pretended to check. He sat back, looking pleased and entertained. "And the rest? I am ex-army, yes."

"I don't know many others who keep a gun in their jacket." I glanced at the thick, double pocketed jacket curiously. There was no shape of a gun, but when he had shrugged it back (it was rather warm in here) I had seen something. And guessed.

"How did you know I come every night?" He asked. I had a feeling he was avoiding the gun subject. I remembered reading about really strict gun control laws in England and wondered if his pistol was legal. But he looked so docile, I couldn't make myself concerned even if it had been.

"I didn't." I confessed. "Waitress experience. Regulars know where to sit. You've picked the seat with the air vent a little ways away and the window behind so that nobody's staring at your back. You didn't hesitate to sit down when you came in, and didn't need a menu, either. Also, you looked a bit confused to find me here, didn't you?" We each smiled.

"They told me that the other girl's getting married."

"Ah." He nodded as if this were news to him. "I think her name was Georgia."

I couldn't help but laugh. "You came every night and you don't remember her name?"

"She was scatter-brained!" He defended himself. "It didn't matter much. You're a much better waitress anyway..." He paused, waiting with half a smile on his lips.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Emily Day."

"John Watson." He extended a hand, and I took it to receive a warm, firm squeeze.

"_Doctor_ John Watson?" I asked with a smile.

"Dr. John Watson, yes. Have you got anything else? I've been putting together a list, now you've got me going." His light eyes sparkled the slightest bit. I wondered why I had thought he was drunk earlier. He was certainly clever enough not to show it, if he was.

"Me too. Go on, won't you?" This should be interesting.

"Ladies first."

"Hm." I sighed thoughtfully. "Alright, but I'm a bit short. All I have are guesses. Do you mind?"

"Go ahead. Promise I won't be offended." He chuckled, as though being offended by me wasn't likely.

It was nearly a dare. I could overlook a challenge if I wanted to, but I'd been known to spit out thoughts before processing them. I willed my sharp tongue to shut up, and began,

"You're... shrewd. Polite. Bit flirty." He winked soberly and I laughed. "But you're..." I wrinkled my forehead in thought, resting my chin on my folded hands. "Bored. Yes. And lonely. And." I squeezed my eyes shut, suddenly feeling my mother's presence across the ocean- across the table. "Sad and angry. And hurt. Because they even though they can't come back, it seems like they could. If they'd just stop being stupid."

The amiable feeling we had had going stretched into a tight silence. I opened my eyes hesitantly to find him sitting there, bewildered looking. And his hand was very white around the coffee mug. I felt my cheeks drain of blood and my stomach fill with nauseous embarassment.

"I'm- I'm sorry, Dr. Watson." I fumbled. I sat back and stood, dropping my pen into my apron to avoid his eyes. "I don't know why I- stupid. I don't even know you."

"Emily." He said softly, but firmly. I peeked back up hesitantly. The bewilderment had passed, but he looked... reassuring. Like a teacher coaxing a child.

"It's alright. Sit? And John, if you like." He nodded towards the seat again and I shyly complied, not knowing where to look.

"You were right." He said quietly. I didn't ask for explanation; instead I offered my own. I still couldn't meet his eyes.

"My brother died when I was six. I don't remember him, much. My mom is really messed up about it. And I used to hate her for it. I wanted her to come back to being my mom."

"So you... recognized... that feeling? Just from a glance?"

"I guess you could say it was like looking in a mirror. I saw that you had a loss on your shoulders." My voice grew softer. "Your friend must have really been something."

"He was." John sighed. "Pain in the arse and all." He looked at me again with his scanning look and I flushed, cursing myself for it. He didn't seem to notice, though. I had been right, perhaps. He wasn't seeing me, quite. He was gazing far away. Back into the past.

"Tyler, his name was. Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like. Having a sibling."

"I have a sister." John came out with, almost grumbling. "Siblings are highly overrated. Have mine, won't you?"

We shared a little smile again. Here was his chance to steer the conversation away to safer waters. But he didn't. Instead, he sighed, and said soberly,

"Sherlock Holmes." And that was it.

For a second, I was nearly confused. Was I missing something? "Your friend?"

"Yeah." John's gaze did not lift from the tabletop.

"I'm sorry." I said softly. A small pause. "Very interesting name."

"Have you heard it before?" Came the surprisingly dry sounding question.

"No." I answered honestly. "I haven't. I think I would remember."

At this he came back to interested again. "You haven't heard of Sherlock Holmes? The detective?"

"I'm sorry, no. Was he famous around here?"

John looked befuddled for a few seconds. And then he laughed. Laughed! I couldn't help but stare- weren't we talking about his lost friend, here?

"Infamous, you could say. And I won't say he didn't deserve the attention- he was brilliant. But yeah, infamous, like I said. He was so-" But he paused, interrupting himself with, "What time is it?"

I checked. "Nine. I think I might close up early... if you have to go." I regretted that. I'd hoped he would stay and talk for a little more. I liked this troubled, clever Dr. Watson. Even if he might be a little drunk, or a little lonely, or even a little nuts. Even if he would be back tomorrow, I didn't want to say good night just yet.

Funny how things work.

"Really? Would you want to, then? Mrs. Hudson won't mind- no one will show up until morning. We could get a drink."

"You know Mrs. Hudson?" I asked, following suit as he stood, receiving both a pleasant surprise and a small shock as I did. He wasn't but a little taller than me- being short had it's minor drawbacks, sometimes. It was nice not to have to crane my neck all the time (Hana, for example, was a petite 5'7".) But his height might have been slackened just a bit by the cane he was leaning on. Immediately I shoved the thought away. I didn't want to embarrass him.

"Yeah, she's a good friend." He grinned unexpectedly. "She "keeps tabs", you could say."

"I was right about that?" I asked, pleased. But then I sobered. "I don't know... I mean, it is unlikely anyone will come in... but it's only my first night, you see." I wrung my hands apologetically. But John was undetered.

"Could call her up, if you like. She's upstairs watching her soaps, if I know her." And he pulled out his cell (mobile here, if I had it right) and a moment later was saying,

"Hullo, Mrs. Hudson. Is it alright if Emily closes up the café early tonight? I want to take her out to see some things."

A little pause, in which I realized I'd never had a chance to answer _yes_ or _no_, but never mind. He wasn't assuming wrong- I had just been thinking how I'd like to talk more, hadn't I?

Lively chatter from the phone, but I couldn't tell if it was positive or not. I waited patiently, but inside my heart was thumping loudly. It was almost like asking permission from a parent- something I had rarely needed to do. It was a strange, anticipatory experience.

"Your new girl, yes." A little sarcastic eye-roll that made me hide a smile behind my hand.

"Yeees." And then he hmed, thoughtfully. "Yes, alright. Good night."

"She said go ahead. She was surprised you were still here, actually."

"Great! I'll just lock up-" I fumbled mentally for a moment (there wasn't anything else needed doing, right?) "And- uh- get my coat?"

"Alright, yeah." John smiled for the first time, then. A real, truly pleased smile that wasn't polite or dry or masking something else. A pleased smile, just- I imagined- for me.

Lord, I was getting as wound up as Hana. She was such a bad influence.

Ten minutes later, I was walking arm-in-arm with Dr. John Watson, (who, by the way, once let loose was an incurably adorable flirt) a warm anticipation keeping out the cold and a sneaking suspicion- call it woman's intuition- that I had stumbled into something- someone- worth taking an interest in.

Neither of us had a car, and neither of us felt much like getting drunk on a Sunday night with work and school the next day, so instead we got a hot tea each and climbed to the top deck of a double decker, the only two up there to brave the cold night.

We forgot the world up there, just watching the buildings and the people go by. We talked quite a lot, about- everything. Nothing. About my parents, Hana. Where we lived, what we liked best about the City. He told me bits and pieces about Sherlock Holmes, and once or twice asked if I really had not heard of him. (I really and truly hadn't.)

"I live in a very small town. Bit sheltered. Besides," I took a deep, refreshing breath of the late autumn air and went on, "I was probably cramming for a test if the news did come by."

This mention of school prompted the inevitable age question. "Next week is my birthday." I answered. "November 30th. I'll be twenty-two."

"Twenty-one!" John repeated in awe. "You're not twenty-one."

I smiled. "I am. I'm barely allowed to drink, back home." I paused in realization. "Actually, I forgot about that. I don't drink much at all."

"Careful no one tries to take advantage of _that._" His grin was teasing. "I'm thirty-one, by the way."

"Really?" I shouldn't have been surprised. There was an air of comfortable confidence around him that I liked that wouldn't come from any young man. Here was a man who might not feel the need to go out every night.

"Really really. Are you cold?" He asked as I fought back a shiver.

"A little. Should we go down a level and sit for a bit? Where are we, anyway?"

"Oh, I don't know. Somewhere. Don't worry. I'll get you home- eventually." Was the cheeky answer accompanied by a grin.

We went down to the second level, wandering all the way to the back, even though there were few people on the bus. I sat on the left to peek out at the Thames as we passed, and John sat beside. In a kind of careful, unsure way, he snuck his arm around my shoulders as I shivered again, and because it was so ineffably sweet, I let him.

We sat that way for some time, watching the lights out the windows, drinking the last of our teas. By the time we ended up back at the place we had boarded, my head was resting comfortably on his shoulder. I hadn't realized how soothing it was, being held. I actually could not recall being held for any extended period of time since I was a little girl. My family was not touchy at all.

"Should we get off here?" John asked.

"Probably." I said, without opening my eyes.

"You don't want to?" Came the amused question.

"Not particularly." I sighed. "But alright."

"I think the bus will go around once more before they close. Are you sure?"

I opened my sleepy eyes to find him watching me. "I think I should head home soon."

"Alright."

We got off and John expertly hailed a cab, a skill I was immediately jealous of, and I told him so. He laughed and opened the door, motioning with his cane for me to get in first. "You'll learn."

I gave instructions to the cabbie and we headed in the direction of the flat, and almost (almost) without thinking about it, John settled his arm around me again and I leaned over, content. I couldn't remember ever feeling this comfortable with a guy before. But I refused to let it go to my head. I was not one for fluffy, romantic nonsense.

We made idle chit chat on the way, and as we pulled up onto our street I said apologetically,

"I would invite you in. But my roommate is the..." I sighed while I searched for the right word. "Over-affectionate type."

"No problem- can you wait a minute?" He asked the driver. The burly man grunted an affirmative.

So John followed me up to the door (we were the second floor flat) and suddenly I realized I'd just been on a date. Hana would kill me when she found out.

"Are you working tomorrow?" John asked quietly, glancing at the door (probably wondering if some crazy redhead was listening at the crack- which, if she had known, wouldn't have been a completely insane assumption).

"No." I whispered. "My shifts are Thursday through Sunday. Mrs. Hudson said she might give me mornings, too."

"That's good." After a moment's pause, he asked, "Could I have your number?"

Crap. "I don't have a cell phone, I'm sorry. I could give you this number... but beware. Hana is a meddling sweetheart."

"I'll risk it." He chuckled. "Can I call you tomorrow? We could do something. Proper night out, if you like."

"What's the John Watson definition of a "proper night out"?" I asked.

"I guess you'll have to see." He said smugly as he handed me his phone. I punched in the number for the flat, labelled it "Emily Day", and handed it back.

"Thanks. Well, er-"

On a sudden impulse to rescue what might have become an awkward moment, I reached up on tip-toe and kissed his cheek gently. "Goodnight, John."

His pleased, surprised smile sent warm tremors into my stomach. "G'night, Emily. Call you tomorrow."

I shut the door as he jogged back down the steps, and once safely inside I smiled a secret little smile. Perhaps I had time for a boyfriend after all. Or even, if it didn't work out that way, just a friend.

But first things first.

I sneaked into our room, got the laptop from the sleepy clutches of a comatose Hana, and went into the kitchen to turn it on.

I pulled up Google. It was time to start searching for John's mysteriously infamous friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
